


Question 1)

by Lauren_is_a_moron



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7888183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_is_a_moron/pseuds/Lauren_is_a_moron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty five minutes into the year 11 GCSE maths exam, Phil Lester starts to notice peculiar things happening. Things he can’t explain. And then there’s Dan Howell who seems to be doing strange party tricks with his equipment.</p><p>Things get really strange, REALLY fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Question 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Idk I just write things

**_~~ESP - (Extrasensory perception) which is the name for individuals harbouring psychic abilities that can be triggered in adolescence~~ _ **

~-~

I hate exams.

More specifically, I hate maths exams. I can’t stand the layout, the questions, even the invigilators are assholes. That’s the only thought which buzzes around my head as I squint at the whiteboard at the front of the room. I can’t help tensing and squirming uncomfortably. My chair is hard wood and I can feel something spiky sticking out of the seat and stabbing me in my left thigh “You have a few minutes to write your name and centre number in the space provided on the paper,” Mr Cannon, my year eight science teacher, drawls from the front of the room. His voice echoes and is as stern as always, sending shivers tip-toeing up and down my spine.

Someone’s hand shoots up and I can practically hear Mr. Cannon’s eyes rolling as Lisa Strutman, known for her lack of brain cells, shouted out; “What’s the centre number, sir?”

“On the board Lisa,” the teacher replies. “I stated that at the beginning.”

Okay, tune everything out. I tell myself mentally, letting my eyes wander over the exam paper.

**NAME: (PLEASE WRITE IN BLOCK CAPITALS)**

I try hard not to make eye contact with the teacher as I bend over my paper and write my name with shaky hands.

PHIL LESTER.

The biro I borrowed from Chris earlier blots ink over the H in my name and I curse softly, before licking my thumb and rubbing delicately over the mistake. But instead of cleaning the smudged H, my attempts only made it look like I had written my name on a rollercoaster.

“Shit.” I grumble, beginning to write my name outside the box, but Mr. Cannon’s voice abruptly snaps me to attention and I look up from my paper. “That’s it,” he said before clearing his throat. He stood with his arms behind his back as if he was coaching an army drill, not invigilating an exam. Mr. Cannon had whispy hair the exact colour and what looked like texture of a cloud while wrinkles lined his forehead when he frowned. Which was almost always. I was starting to think if Mr. Cannon was born frowning, he would probably die with the same expression.

“You have two hours and forty five minutes,” his voice booms across the hall, bouncing from the four identical walls enclosing us in the school gym. There were at least two hundred of us, all sitting in lines of ten which stretched to the back of the room. “You may turn over your papers.” the maths teacher says, and I hear a chorus of paper being flipped over across the room. I take a deep breath and turn mine over, bending over to peer at it.

The question was blank. Wait, what? My thoughts ricochet against my skull as I try and comprehend the exam paper. But I couldn’t because there wasn’t a question to solve. There was only the question number, how many marks it was worth, and a dotted line.

**1.**

**……..cm (total 5 marks)**

**(DIAGRAM NOT ACCURATELY DRAWN)**  the question claimed, and I snorted. What diagram?!

Silence. I hate silence. There isn’t even the comforting sound of pens and pencils scribbling answers, because by the look of the question, the whole year group were puzzled. What? I re-read the ‘question’ twice before lifting my head slowly and risk a quick glance to my left.

PJ is one of the smartest guys in my year group, proven when he stood up in English literature last month and contradicted what the teacher was saying, before telling her she was wrong and standing on the table, explaining it himself. Yeah, he got detention, but you could tell even teachers respected him. He was surely going to end up as a university lecturer or maybe a lawyer. But when I catch his expression right then, I notice something I’ve never seen in his eyes before. Something unfamiliar. Confusion.

My mind whirls.  _An equation so hard to complete that even PJ Liguori, class of 2016 genius, couldn’t even crack it?_

PJ was staring at his paper with a look of complexity I thought would never cross his facial expression. His eyes were narrowed and his lips in a tight line. There was a tap tap tap cutting through the silence as his shoes orchestrated their own melody on the polished floor of the theatre. PJ was confused. He had no idea what the first question was.  _So it must be hard, right?_

The ink must have ran out on my paper. I think about asking an invigilator, but all three of them are dotted around the room, bent over students with matching looks of confusion on their faces. They must be confused about another question.

I look back at my own paper, my chest tightening as I prepare for the next question, my eyes skimming to number 2

But something twists in my stomach when I find myself ignoring question 2, and allowing my gaze to land back on question 1. Sure enough, as if I was expecting it subconsciously, I watch in part shock and part amazement, as question number one seems to  _materialize_  onto the paper.

 _I’m going crazy_. I want to laugh, and I blink three times, pinching my arm and even shaking my head pretty violently. But when I stop, and obsidian strands of my hair hang in my eyes, I realize  _I’m not crazy_. The question was always there, right? I counted how much sleep I had last night and can only estimate three measly hours. The question was always there, it’s just my mind playing tricks on me.

Now I’ve sorted that out, I tell myself mentally, back to the exam. I lean forward and push stray thoughts to the back of my head.  _Concentrate on the question, Phil._

 _Solve this equation_ : the question prompted, followed by a simple looking mathematical sum.  _What?_  it took everything in me not to laugh out loud. PJ was stuck on  _that?!_  I scribble down the answer after quickly adding it all up in my head. Satisfied with my answer, I let my body relax against the harsh wood of my chair and let out a steady breath.

However, my temporary sense of calm is interrupted by a sharp pain hitting the back of my skull, with the sensation of someone smashing me in the head with a blunt object.  _Shit_. I fight to keep tears from prickling in my eyes as a new pain: a much duller thump, skated its way the across my forehead.

And then when I think I can’t take the pain anymore, it dulls to barely a headache, followed by a clear as day voice in my head. I recognize it automatically as Dylan Stilinski. His voice beats against my skull and every word he speaks is agonizing

_“ABC is a right angled triangle._

_AC = 6cm_

_B9 = 9cm_

_Work out the length of AB…I don’t know? I don’t remember this being in the revision pack? What the hell, Mrs. Jarvis? Oh god I’ll just guess. Yeah, I’ll guess. I mean it’s not like one question is going to ruin my life, right?”_

I can’t help a groan slipping from my lips as I drop my pencil and even the tinny clatter it makes as it hits my desk causes a cacophony of pain beating against my skull relentlessly.  _“I hope Tom is coming to the pub tonight,”_  this time his words spike in my head with no pain, and I realize with panic, that I’m clutching my hair, gripping it so violently, one tug will rip it all out.

“Mr Lester are you okay?” I lift my head up to see one of the invigilators, a pretty women with a wiry figure and blood-red hair stares down at me with what I can only describe as the smallest of smiles on her lips.  _I hope I got his name right_ her voice echoes in my head and I stare at her lips which never said a word.

“Yes.” I say, and fight back the urge to say no.  _No, I’m not okay! I just heard Dylan Stilinski’s cry of disdain over a question and he’s on the other side of the hall!_

 _In my head!_  my mind screams.  _I heard his voice in my HEAD_. While I mentally scream at myself, I watch the invigilator pick me apart with her eyes. “I’m fine.” I say with a forced smile. “I just have a headache.” the invigilator didn’t seem incredibly convinced. She leaned over my desk and planted a heavily manicured nail on my paper. “May I?” she didn’t wait for an answer and instead she looked over my answers, a smile beginning to stretch across her lips. “I will request some paracetamol if I can,” she says sweetly, before straightening up, and carrying on her eloquent march down my row.

 _Okay I am going crazy._  I wait for another burst of pain to attack the back of my skull, followed by a classmate’s echoing  voice spiking in my mind, but there’s nothing- only silence. The pain has stopped and I go back to my paper, making a mental note to never  **ever**  get less than five hours sleep before an exam again.

I move to question two, shaking off the funny feeling brewing in my stomach and the full throbbing left behind from  _whatever the hell happened_.

 _Your mind can play all sorts of tricks on you_ I remind myself.

The second equation was easier than the mind boggling complexity of the first and I start to relax in my chair and let my mind wander freely as I easily get through questions 3-15. It becomes almost fun to watch my pencil  _dance_ across my paper as I draw out graphs and charts. I’m completely in my element. I start to think about getting into a good college, about making new friends despite following Chris and the others to film school.

The Manchester Academy of Film required BBA and I was confident that if I passed this exam, I was going to my dream school. It was all the others talked about. Chris had even gone as far as posting flyers and opening day letters through my postbox. It didn’t take a lot of convincing. It was perfect, and I was doing it, taking the huge jump, with my best friends.

Something hits the floor suddenly with an audible clatter and my sensitive ears curl into themselves as I cringe and before I can really help myself, I’m turning in my chair and facing large brown eyes the colour of mocha, and they’re staring right back at me, wide in complete bewilderment.

Dan Howell. My mind matches the boy’s face with a name, and I struggle to keep eye contact with him. But not because he’s, in my opinion,  scary, or one of the most popular guys in the year - no, it’s because he has the biggest, maddest Cheshire-cat grin. I frown at him in confusion, but his eyes are on the floor, where I follow his gaze to find him staring at a blue ruler he had obviously dropped.

I raise my eyebrows at him but he just smirks as if he holds some deep, dark secret that he’ll never tell. I watch him bend over in his chair as his brunette fringe flops in his face when he reaches out to grab the ruler. But to my amazement he doesn’t physically  _grab_  the ruler, but the object suddenly floats a few meters off the ground. I stare and quickly look at Dan, to see his grin has grown.

 _No_. I turn back to my own paper and my mind is buzzing, my heart is throwing itself into my rib cage as I struggle to find an explanation to what I just saw. But I can’t. And I can’t find an explanation for being able to hear Dylan Stilinski’s voice in my head as well as the red haired invigilator.

 _Carry on_. I force myself to look at the exam paper, but I can’t concentrate on the questions anymore. X seems to mix with Y and suddenly I have no idea what the word ‘simplify’ means. I start to feel sweat beading down my neck and goosebumps starting to prickle on my arms. There’s another clatter behind me and I can’t stop myself this time. I turn around, head already spinning. But when I set my eyes on Dan Howell, he’s sat in his seat, leaning forward, his fringe neatly obscuring his eyes which are shut.

And then there’s the case of the stationary all floating in front of him. Panic spikes in my stomach and I let out a barely audible hiss. “Dan!” his eyes blink open and he only smirks at me before opening his mouth and mouthing one single word:

 **Watch**. And then as clear as day, accompanied with the feeling of my head being smashed against concrete, was Dan Howell’s voice in my head.

 _“This is so fucking cool! Watch what I can do!”_  His voice is excited and squeaky, nothing like the one I’m used to as he booms his way down the halls of the school, shouting at the top of his voice about how awesome everything was.

I’m not sure how to respond, and all I can do is look around the room and see if anybody can SEE this, because if they can’t then I am insane. I let my eyes wander across the bowed heads of the student body and see no frightened or shocked eyes in my direction.

But right at the front of the room, the three invigilators, including the women who assisted me, were all staring directly at me and Dan. They saw everything; the flying stationary, Dan’s manic grin- everything.

And they were smiling. A feeling hits my stomach and it twists, making me feel nauseous. Mr Cannon, my maths teacher, had a look of greed on his face.

I turn back to Dan to mouth, or maybe even scream,  _stop doing that!_  and my gut clenches when I find myself staring at an empty desk. The stationary is scattered across the desk and the chair where Dan Howell had just sat, was empty.

No, his paper is still there.  _I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I am NOT fucking crazy!_

 _“There are an estimated 20% of ESP kids here,”_  a voice hits my skull like a blow to the head. The invigilator women. Her voice rips through my skull and I fight back a scream. I clench my teeth and turn back around, forcing every shred of free-will I had not to jump up and make a run for it.

“Shit.” a voice- an actual voice murmurs from in front of me, and I mentally claw through the pain from my last  _mind read?_  to get a clear picture of the speaker in my head. Joe Sugg. He lets out a sigh and I can’t help leaning forward to peek.

The first thing I notice is tiny specks of scarlet on his paper. Blood. And when I glance at the floor, I realize with a heart-stopping breath of shock, that his chair is floating a few centimeters off the ground.

“Phil.” I bite back a shriek when Dan’s familiar voice-  **actual** voice whispers, and I twist in my seat to find him back on his seat. “What’s going on?!” I hiss back, and try  _very_  hard not to scream in his face.

He just shrugs.  _“My equipment started floating in mid-air about fifteen minutes ago,”_  his voice sounds in my head, but as soft as it is, the pain is still insufferable. I wince and his eyes widen.  _“Is that hurting you?”_  I grit my teeth and can only nod.

How does Dan know I can hear people’s thoughts?

 _“Because I can hear yours too, dummy,”_  his voice is teasing in my head, and this time there’s only a single slice of pain which seemed to match his sentence. He curses out loud, but in a whisper.  _“Shit, sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you,”_   he offers a wry grin.  _“To be honest I have no idea what’s going on.”_

That’s great to know. I plan on saying something sarcastic back, but suddenly Dan’s desk whisks out from in front of him and smashes against the back wall. He’s left still sitting, but this time he looks completely horrified. I turn to see if he’s caught the attention of everyone else, but there’s only about twenty or thirty out of two hundred students staring back at Dan. The rest were still bent over their papers.

 _No._. I cast a glance at PJ, who has his head against his desk, his arms nestled underneath.  _No, he’s asleep._

The other kids who weren’t staring in shock at Dan, who had just whistled his desk into the wall, were fast asleep.

The other kids just sat there, most likely in a state of shock. When I really looked at them, I realized I wasn’t the only one, apart from Dan, who was finding extraordinary things happening to them.

That made sense. Weed out twenty or thirty kids with abilities and send the others to dream land. But whatever I had- I had  **never**  had it. Plus it was like a tuning radio. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

“Daniel James Howell,” The female invigilator breaks the silence and clears her throat. “That’s quite the gift you have there.”

“We would find it incredibly useful, and you’d be helping a good cause.” the other invigilator, a small pudgy man with thick framed glasses, smiled reassuringly.

Dan doesn’t say anything. Instead he stands up and squeezes his eyes shut. His chair suddenly shoots into the air, and hovers, suspended. “Don’t come anywhere near me,” his voice is a warning when his eyes flicker open. Then he shoots a look at me. “Or him.”

The female invigilator just laughs, and it hits my sensitive ears. “Don’t be ridiculous, young man.” but even she took a wary step back. “Dan, you don’t understand what you have, what- what side effects you can get-”

“What any of you have,” the male invigilator who hadn’t said a word, boomed, so his voice was reaching the others. Mr Cannon nodded. “We were right to believe that ESP abilities in young people could be triggered by-”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Dan interrupts the maths teacher and shrugs, walking towards me, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “All I know is that I’m not thick enough to hang around and listen to your bullshit about us ‘being special.” he rolled his eyes with a smirk, before leaning towards me. “I’ve always had a thing for you Lester, fancy going on the run with me?”

 _This was going too fast. Too fast to deal with or comprehend._  I let out a choked laugh. “Do I have a choice?”

“Take a deep breath.” he murmured, and instead of arguing, I do as I’m told. “I don’t get it it, what’s going on?” I hiss. Dan lets out a choked laugh as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Well, actually it was.

“It’s because you answered question one, you fucking spoon,” he laughed, before wrapping his arms around me. I shivered feeling the tickle of his voice in my ear.

“Hold on.” before I had time to processes what that meant, everything seemed to speed up- my breathing, Dan’s heart against my chest, and of course, the actual world blurred and my vision became an array of different colors. I opened my mouth to scream, but before I could, everything abruptly slowed down and I felt both mine and Dan’s bodies slam against something something hard.

Concrete. It took me a few minutes of dizziness and overcoming the overwhelming sensation of vomit crawling up my throat, but when my head stopped spinning and my brain began to register what had happened, I found myself lying on the chest of one of the biggest dick’s in school. Well, one of the biggest dick’s in school who could also  _teleport._

That fact was obvious as I find myself staring into a bright blue sky which was most definitely not the dull grey of Manchester sky I had woken up to this morning. Dan is warm beneath me and I manage to roll off his chest and crawl across  _boiling_  hot concrete which I’m sure is hot enough to fry an egg on.

“Where…” My tongue is twisted and I can still taste vomit as I try and get my bearings. All I can see is the bright blue sky stretching out for what seems for forever  underneath a dusty concrete road we appear to me lying on. “Where are we?”

Dan is rubbing his head. There’s a trickle of blood running down his cheek where he must have collided with the ground. “Uhh-” he jumps up with a groan and yanks his school tie off with a click of his tongue.

“You know what, I have no idea,” he grins and gestures to what looks like a dying palm tree. It’s branches are twisted with age and it’s leaves rotting from the heat.

“Looks American?” he attempts with a teasing smile but I scowl at him. “How do we get back?!”

“Back?” he parrots, fixing me with a look of complexity. “Did we take meth or something last night?” he groans. “My head’s killing me.” My stomach twists.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I say quietly.

The female invigilators voice hits me before I can think.

_Dan, you don’t understand what you have, what- what side effects you can get-”_

He stares at me for a few seconds before holding out his hand for me to shake. “So we partied last night?” he smiles brightly.

“Nice to meet you! I’m Dan Howell,” he frowns at me in confusion. “Now, no offense, I mean hell you have pretty eyes no wonder we..” he smirks suggestively and I bite back a squeak.

His next words hit me far worse than any mind-reading pain. “Who the heck are you?”

I might have thought it was a joke. Because Dan Howell was the class joker after all. But just when I was starting to consider asking if he was having me on, my frazzled brain seemed to pick up on its recent sudden metamorphosis and voices seemed to materialize in my head like that of a radio being tuned in. I heard distant crackles and the American twang which confirmed Dan’s suspicions. But there was a voice far more clearer in my head which stood out amongst the stream of voices attacking my consciousness.

_“He’s cute. Man, who is he? Why can’t I remember? …actually wait, I can’t remember anything. Oh god I must have taken some kind of drug.”_

Dan.

 


End file.
